Curse of the Forbidden Book

by Amy Lynn Green

  Jesse ignored the comment. “Can we get on with the planning? Please?”

  “If we can keep from being interrupted by people wanting to give Jesse beggar’s coins,” Rae said.

  “I hope we all at least look somewhat tattered and poor,” Silas said, standing. He started to walk again. Jesse groaned. He was tired of walking. “We’ll need to act like weary travelers if we are to be admitted to the house of refuge outside of Davior.”

  That was their plan for a meal and a place to spend the night. They had run out of food the day before, and Jesse, at least, was tired of sleeping on the rock-hard ground. Silas had said that the priests who ran the houses of refuge rarely asked questions of their guests.

  Jesse had never seen a house of refuge before, but he had heard of them. His uncle and aunt had talked about taking him to one when his parents disappeared two years before. The priests often took in orphans as well as travelers. Then Aunt Dara decided she needed more help at the inn, and there had been no more talk of taking Jesse to “those fool priests.”

  “How far is it from here?” Rae asked, falling into step next to Silas.

  “Not far at all,” Silas promised. Jesse didn’t believe him. He had been saying that for two days as they traveled. “We’ll be there within the hour.”

  Rae grunted. “Good,” she said. “I don’t know how much more of Parvel’s jabbering I can take.”

  Jesse couldn’t understand why Parvel’s story bothered Rae so much. It wasn’t some wild, exaggerated tale that Parvel told to pass time as they traveled—it was the true story of God, and God’s son, Jesus, who came to earth. Jesse was fascinated by the miracles Jesus performed and the way He seemed to love even the most insignificant people.

  Silas and Rae, though, did not believe in God, and did not appreciate Parvel’s story. They had grumbled about it during their journey to Davior, often traveling ahead so they wouldn’t have to listen.

  Jesse ignored Rae’s comment. “We were at the part where Jesus’ friend Lazarus was sick,” he reminded Parvel.

  Parvel grinned, although Jesse couldn’t figure out why. Sickness was not a thing to smile about. “When they received the news, the disciples were upset, but Jesus didn’t leave. He stayed right where He was….”

  Jesse fell into an even pace, leaning on his walking stick, as Parvel continued the story. By the time they reached the gates of the house of refuge, Parvel had told Jesse all about how Lazarus had died, and how Jesus had raised him from the dead.

  “And so many people believed in Jesus because of Lazarus that the leaders decided they would have to kill Jesus and Lazarus,” Parvel finished.

  Jesse laughed. “That’s ridiculous. How do you kill a man who’s already died?”

  “You cut his loudmouth head off with a sword,” Silas snapped from in front of them. Even Parvel looked a little taken aback. It was strange of Silas to be so outspoken, even when joking.

  “No more of this story,” Silas said. “We’re coming into the village. From now on, let me do the talking. I’m from this District and know how things are done. Besides, you all have accents.”

  Rae sniffed and folded her arms. “I don’t have an accent. Everyone else does.”

  Parvel laughed. “I suppose all of us could say that.”

  Jesse didn’t mind the silence, just as he didn’t mind hiding their weapons or travelling off the main road. If Silas was overly cautious, at least that was better than rushing blindly into danger. They didn’t want to arouse any suspicions.

  Like most houses of refuge, the one in Davior was on the very edge of town, another reason they had chosen to stay there. Jesse knew the reason was to make it more accessible to travelers, but the house of refuge looked lonely on the hill overlooking Davior, as if it had been pushed away from the city along with the outcasts who lived there.

  Once they got closer, Jesse could see that the house of refuge was a large, two-story building surrounded by a neat pole fence and marked by a white flag with a red stripe—the symbol of the Order of Amarian priests.

  The porch creaked under their collective weight, but other than that there were no signs the house of refuge was dirty or run-down. The floor was swept, the windows clean, and a few flowers poked bravely out of the ground near the wall.

  That surprised Jesse, because the tiny chapel in his hometown of Mir was little more than a dirty hut. Then again, he reminded himself, our priest was fat and lazy. There’s no reason to assume that all priests are like him.

  Silas’s knock on the door echoed hollowly. They stood there on the porch, waiting.

  “What if it’s been abandoned?” Jesse asked. “I’ve heard of that happening. The king has his men inspect the houses of refuge, then shuts down the ones that aren’t run the way he wants.”

  “No,” Silas said. “Everything’s too neat for that. Unless they were driven away just a few days ago.” He knocked again.

  “That would be just our luck,” Rae muttered.

  Then he looked down. A little girl peeped out at the same height as the doorknob. “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Travelers seeking a place to stay,” Silas answered, as formally as if he were talking to a grand duke.

  “Oh,” she said. She bit her lip, like she was trying to remember what to do. Then she smiled and opened the door. “Come in.”

  They followed her into the entryway, which looked to Jesse more like a parlor. It was much more elaborate than the homes he was used to back in Mir. The furnishings were elegant, but faded, as if they had been a part of the house of refuge for many years.

  “Wait here, please,” she chirped, darting through a doorway with a dark curtain hanging to the ground. “I’ll get the priests.”

  Jesse glanced around. On the cabinet against the far wall was an open book, a velvet ribbon marking the place. “A Song for Divine Peace,” it read in calligraphy at the top of the page, followed by what looked like a poem.

  “What do the priests believe, Parvel?” Jesse asked, looking up from the book. “My father never trusted them, so I paid them very little attention.”

  “It’s rather complicated,” Parvel admitted. “For most, the Order is a meditative religion. The priests teach from the Book of Prayer, and most see God as a kind of impersonal force present in all of nature and in the good aspects of the world. Others….” He shrugged and glanced around the parlor. There was a chair with cushions, a painting over the fireplace, and a window with real glass, all of them expensive luxuries.

  “Others only take the job for the salary and the tax exemptions that come with being part of the Order,” Silas cut in, his voice like ice. “Is that what you were going to say, Parvel?”

  He didn’t deny it. “So, which kind of priest was my father?” Silas continued.

  “I did not know your father,” Parvel said. “Even then, I would not be able to say for certain. I cannot judge a man’s heart. Only God can.”

  “That’s what….” Whatever Silas had been about to say was cut short when two men entered the room. They both wore the traditional red belt of the order, but that was where the resemblance stopped.

  The first priest walked with confidence. He was younger, with a strong chin and a stomach enlarged from not a few years of rich living. The other was an old man, small and frail, with simple clothes that had lost nearly all of their color from years of washing and use.

  The older priest stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Welcome to our house of refuge,” he said. “Blessings upon you as you enter this place. I am Anton, and this is Harrod.”

  “My name is Thomas,” Silas said. They had all agreed that it would be dangerous to use their real names, in case the priests kept any kind of record of their visitors. “My friends and I are traveling together. We need a place to stay for a few nights.”

  “Thomas,” the old priest mused, looking up at Silas with
serious dark eyes. “An interesting man, that one. So many doubts…but he saw the truth in the end. Yes. In the end.”

  “Excuse me?” Silas asked.

  “Just an old legend of the Order,” the younger priest said, waving his hand in dismissal. “Anton lives in those musty old books. Sometimes he forgets when he’s in the real world.”

  Anton chuckled to himself. “It’s true. Half of the time, I don’t know which stories are true and which were made up by lonely old men like me, dreaming of something that isn’t real.” He shrugged. “But enough of that. We need to find you a room.”

  The younger priest crossed his arms and directed his question at Silas. “Can you pay?”

  “Harrod,” Anton scolded. “You know we don’t take fees, as if we were a common inn.” Still, he waited for Silas to answer.

  “We have no money,” Silas said, keeping his shoulders straight and head up, even though Jesse knew it must be humiliating for him to beg for a place to spend the night.

  “Very well,” Anton said, nodding several times in a row like a sparrow. “You can work for your meal. We can always use more help in the kitchen.”

  “Telemachus isn’t going to like it,” Harrod said. “You know he likes to keep to himself.”

  “Our young friend Telemachus isn’t in charge of this house,” Anton said, a trace of determination coming into his voice. “And, besides, it will do him good to be around young people closer to his own age.” He turned to Silas. “Come with me. I’ll show you your room.”

  The room was more like a closet, with straw mattresses wedged five across. “The young lady, of course, will sleep in a different room,” Anton said, indicating a larger room across the hall. “With the orphan girls, I’m afraid. There is only room for so many here, you understand.”

  “Never mind,” Parvel said graciously. “I’m sure Rae would love to spend time with the young children.”

  Rae looked at him doubtfully.

  “Yes,” Anton said, his sagging face brightening. “It would do them good to have a motherly figure around, even if it is just for a short time.”

  Jesse nearly laughed. Yes, a mother figure who can kill a man in one stroke, fight off wild beasts, and climb up sheer mountain cliffs.

  They set down their packs. Jesse rubbed his stiff shoulders. It was good to be free of the burden for once, although he hoped none of the orphans would dig through his possessions.

  As they descended the weathered staircase, Jesse tried to decide what was creaking most, the steps or Anton’s old joints.

  “Are you followers of the Order?” Anton asked, breaking the silence.

  Jesse glanced at Parvel. Could they really say they followed the priests’ watered-down religion? “We are seekers of the one true God,” Parvel said firmly.

  “Some of us,” Silas muttered, so quietly that Jesse was sure Anton hadn’t heard.

  Anton turned around at that and tilted his head curiously. “Seekers of the one true God. Interesting,” he said vaguely. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. You’ll need Him for your work in the kitchen.”

  At first, Jesse laughed, until he realized that Anton’s face was serious. “What are we going to be doing?” he demanded.

  Anton’s dark, solemn eyes never blinked. “Peeling potatoes.”

  Chapter 3

  Jesse had never seen so many potatoes in his life. They poured out of three burlap bags like a rockslide in the mountains. He wondered if the house of refuge was home to more orphans than soldiers in a regiment of King Selen’s army. If not, they’re going to be eating leftovers for months.

  “Welcome to our kitchen,” Anton said, his wrinkled face beaming with pride. “We take great care to keep things neat and orderly around here, as I’m sure you can see. And here’s your supervisor.”

  He pointed to a young man in the corner of the kitchen, hunched over as he peeled one of the potatoes. One of his burly arms was completely wrapped in ragged bandages, turned gray from washing. “Who’re they?” he grunted, barely glancing up.

  “Travelers working for their supper,” Anton said. He turned to them. “This is Telemachus.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Parvel said, extending his hand. Telemachus ignored it. Instead, he stood and slumped over to the cabinet on the far wall. That’s when Jesse realized that his back was permanently hunched, making him walk with a stooping gait.

  “Grab a root or get out of my kitchen,” Telemachus ordered.

  Jesse glanced at Anton. “He’s not as bad as he seems. He just doesn’t care much for strangers,” Anton whispered before slinking out the door.

  “Excuse me,” Rae said, tapping Telemachus on his hunched shoulder. He jerked away, glaring at her. “Where are the knives? Unless you want us to gnaw the peels off.”

  Telemachus yanked open a drawer and held out several knives in his huge fist. “Thank you,” Rae said coolly.

  She handed one to Jesse, and he started in on a big, lumpy potato. He was used to these kinds of chores from his days back at his uncle’s inn.

  Parvel, apparently, was not. He held the knife clumsily, scraping off a few small sections at a time. “So,” he said to Telemachus, “how long have you been here?”

  “I don’t like questions,” Telemachus growled.

  That didn’t surprise Jesse.

  After that, they sat in silence. Once, Telemachus lumbered over to inspect Jesse’s work. Now that he was closer, Jesse could see that he had eyes the color of dirty dishwater, barely sticking out under his sandy blond hair, cut raggedly across his forehead.

  Apparently, he approved of Jesse’s technique, because he lumbered back to his stool with nothing more than a grunt. Somehow, he managed to keep his eyes roving around while keeping up a quick, steady pace with his knife.

  “Stupid girl,” he muttered, glancing over at Rae. “Cut away from yourself.”

  Rae stared at him and made a deliberate stroke down the potato, stopping just short of her hand. “I’ll do this as I wish, thank you.” Rae didn’t take orders very well.

  “Ain’t my fault you don’t know how t’ use a knife,” Telemachus said, shrugging his huge shoulders. “Like as not, yer folks are still alive—they just got rid of ya ’cause you couldn’t pull yer weight.”

  “Take care,” Parvel warned, setting his knife down and looking Telemachus in the eye, a clear warning in his voice.

  Parvel didn’t take insults very well, especially insults to Rae, who he called “the lady of the squad,” even though she could probably fight as well or better than any of them.

  Jesse tooled a face onto the potato, scraping off two eyes, a gaping mouth, and a nose. He held it out and studied it. The nose was a little misshapen, but overall, not bad. He hated it when his squad members picked fights. Which was often.

  It seemed, however, as though Telemachus was too lazy to start a fight. He just scowled at Parvel and went back to his potato. Then his red face contorted with something like a grin.

  “You, girl,” he said. “Go out to the well and haul me some water.” He pointed to a large bucket with a finger covered in grime from the potatoes. “You’re gonna wash these here roots.”

  “You want me to wash the peels…before we take the peels off?” Rae pointed out, mouth twisted up in scorn.

  “Do what I tell you, girl,” Telemachus said.

  Rae, hands on her hips, was about to protest, but Silas cut her off. “That bucket is too heavy for her.”

  Jesse nodded. He had hauled a lot of water in his days, but he had never seen a bucket so large. It reached Rae’s knees.

  Telemachus tossed a dirty potato skin in his mouth, chewing it with his mouth wide open. “Yeah? So?”

  “I’ll get the water,” Silas said, taking the bucket. “She can wash the potatoes.”

  Telemachus didn’t seem to be in the mood to argue. “Hurry it u
p.”

  By the time Silas got back, straining under the weight of the full bucket, there was only one sack of potatoes to wash. Silas poured the water into a basin and dumped the potatoes in.

  “Are you sure I should bother—” Rae began.

  “Just do it, Rae,” Parvel said wearily. Telemachus grunted in agreement.

  Still muttering under her breath, Rae rolled her sleeves up so they wouldn’t drag in the water. Jesse froze, staring. She had moved her right sleeve up too far, uncovering her shoulder. The bottom of her Youth Guard tattoo—an A inside a broken circle—showed from underneath the hem.

  Apparently Rae had noticed too, because she quickly jerked the sleeve down, covering the tattoo.

  Jesse’s eyes darted to Telemachus, who was poking through the sack. He came out with a potato clenched in his fist. “Rotten,” he explained, tossing it into the fire with a smirk.

  The burnt potato smell that filled the kitchen was so bad Jesse was glad there was very little food in his stomach. It probably would have all come up anyway.

  Telemachus sniffed the air and grinned widely. “Smells like dinner to me.”

  He didn’t see the tatoo, Jesse told himself. He wouldn’t even know what it was if he did. He’s too stupid to recognize his own name tattooed onto someone’s arm.

  In spite of his relief, Jesse couldn’t keep from gagging at the smell of the burning potato. Telemachus glanced over at him. His eyes narrowed. “Something wrong?” he demanded.

  He thinks I was making the face at him. “No,” Jesse tried to protest. “I just—”

  “Careful,” Telemachus warned, squinting at him. “You watch yerself, cripple.”

  Jesse felt his face turning red, and he gripped his staff until his knuckles were white, wanting to strike Telemachus across the forehead with it.

  “Be warned,” Parvel said, turning to face Telemachus, “you threaten him, you threaten all of us. We stand together.”